


take me to your river (i wanna go)

by nutmeg101



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Friends, Domestic Fluff, F/F, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:47:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24295324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeg101/pseuds/nutmeg101
Summary: five times héloïse and marianne don’t know/can’t admit they’re in love with each other & the one time they do.alternatively: the plotless, accidentally domestic, childhood best friends modern au that literally nobody asked for.+“Who are you?” Héloïse asks, feeling the sand crunching inside her shoe. The girl is taller than she had imagined, Héloïse having to tilt her head back to look at her.“Marianne,” the girl says. She barely cracks a smile, just an enigmatic quirk of her lips.
Relationships: Héloïse & Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire), Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 208





	take me to your river (i wanna go)

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously. There is no plot. 
> 
> As always, thank you for all your feedback, I love each and every one of you.
> 
> :)

**_i._ ** ****

They are six years old when they meet for the first time.

Héloïse’s tiny hands are white knuckled around the pole atop the playground as she leans over the edge to survey how far her drop is. She’s watched the other kids do it effortlessly all afternoon, but her knees are shaking and her feet won’t leave the platform. Everything is just so big when you barely stand four feet tall.

“It’s not as high as you think,” a gentle voice says behind her. “Just jump.” Héloïse can’t even find the courage to let go and turn around. 

“N-no, I can’t. I’m too scared.”

“It’s okay. Just close your eyes. Pretend you’re a bird.”

So Héloïse does. She sucks in a breath, squeezes her eyes shut, and before she knows it, her legs are swinging forward and wrapping around the pole and she slides to ground with a thud, sand kicking up beneath her as her butt takes the impact. She lets out a disgruntled _oof._ Yeah, a bird that can’t fly.

Hardly a second later, before she can even re-open her eyes, there’s another slightly more elegant thud in front of her and she feels the heat of the sun on her face fade behind a shadow.

“See? Not scary,” the same voice says. 

Héloïse opens her eyes and standing before her is a girl she doesn’t recognize. She looks to be around the same age, she supposes. Her brown hair is tied back into a neat braid and her eyes are like oceans; she’s never seen anything like them. Then Héloïse can’t stop staring at her button-like nose and the way it crinkles as she squints her eyes from the sun. The girl extends her little hands in a gesture to pull Héloïse up and Héloïse eyes her apprehensively before reaching forward, clumsily stumbling to her feet.

“Who are you?” Héloïse asks, feeling the sand crunching inside her shoe. The girl is taller than she had imagined, Héloïse having to tilt her head back to look at her.

“Marianne,” the girl says. She barely cracks a smile, just an enigmatic quirk of her lips. “I just moved here a couple weeks ago with my parents. We go to the same school, I’ve seen you. You are in Madame Bouchard’s class.”

“Oh,” is all Héloïse can manage, amazed and a little bit concerned that someone she doesn’t even know would already know who she is. She looks around to make sure her mother is still sitting on the bench behind her. “Whose class are you in?”

“Monsieur Duchamp,” Marianne says, tucking her hands into her pockets. “You live in that big house up the hill, right? The one near the sea?”

The statement catches Héloïse off guard. She takes a step back, narrowing her eyes in distrust. “How did you know that?”

Marianne doesn’t answer, her cheeks turning pink. She touches at her forehead and her eyebrows do the faintest of twitches. “So are you going to tell me what your name is?” she eventually says.

Héloïse cocks her head to the side and folds her arms across her chest. “You know where I live and who my teacher is, but you don’t know my name?” She is incredulous and proudly defiant, so much so for a six year old that her mother wonders where she learnt it from.

Marianne’s face falls. She was only trying to be nice. She presses her lips into a line so straight it may almost be a pout before turning her back to Héloïse and walking away. 

“Nevermind,” her voice trails with her, feelings hurt. 

Héloïse lets out an inaudible _hmph_ and watches until Marianne reaches the edge of the playground where the sand meets the grass. All of a sudden, when the gap is too far, she becomes a little less defiant and more remorseful. She decides right then that she wants to be Marianne’s friend.

“Wait!” Héloïse shouts, chasing after Marianne, her little legs carrying her as fast as she can go. She hadn’t meant to upset Marianne. “I’m Héloïse,” she pants.

Marianne stops in her tracks and Héloïse waits for her to turn around. When she does, they study each other, a little bit in contempt, but mostly intrigue. If Héloïse didn’t know any better, she’d say that her heart starts to feel like a warm balloon slowly expanding in her chest. Finally, their eyes light up and it forces a smile out of the both of them.

“Do you want to do that again?” Héloïse asks, eyes darting towards the pole, face bright with new found excitement.

“Only if you can catch me,” Marianne gleams. She takes off so fast that it leaves Héloïse in a daze.

“That’s not fair!” Héloïse shouts. “You didn’t say go!” 

“I’ll share my snack with you if you catch me!”

Héloïse beats her to the top of the playground.

**_ii._ **

They are thirteen years old when Héloïse nearly gets suspended for starting a fight with a boy at school who upsets Marianne. 

Héloïse knows better than anyone that Marianne can stand her own ground, but when Héloïse hears the heavy boy with the scraggily hair calling her “nothing but the daughter of a painter,” she can’t not step in, offering a few choice words of her own. She even swings an arm, but luckily for him, Marianne pulls her away just in time. Unluckily for Marianne, Héloïse’s flailing hand accidentally catches the bottom of her chin and the ring she’s wearing slices a neat cut. It draws blood. Not much, but Marianne yelps and it’s definitely going to leave a scar.

“Stupid rich bitch,” the boy mutters at Héloïse, and suddenly Marianne is wishing she hadn’t pulled her away.

Héloïse’s mother is furious. 

“You are just a _child_ ,” she scorns on the car ride home. “What business do you have trying to start a fight with a boy twice your size? Why are you even fighting in the first place?” 

“ _Maman_ , I am not a child,” Héloïse pleads, pulling at her seatbelt. “It wasn’t even my fault. You should have heard the things he said about Marianne and her family.”

There is disdain written all over her mother’s face. “Marianne can fight her own battles,” she huffs, tightening her hands around the steering wheel. “You don’t have to be a hero.” 

“She would have done the same for me,” Héloïse mutters under her breath, staring out the window.

The rest of the drive is mostly silent, only the quiet murmuring of the radio, while Héloïse contemplates her actions, wondering if Marianne is okay. Maybe she did cross the line. As soon as they arrive home, she is immediately sent up to her bedroom. 

Not more than half an hour passes when there’s a knock at the front door and Héloïse’s mother answers it. It’s Marianne.

“Oh,” Madame sighs, her brows knitted and eyes narrow. “It’s you.”

Marianne offers her an innocent smile, though the guilt in her eyes is palpable. She’s well aware Héloïse’s mother is upset because she’s the reason for Héloïse’s delinquency, but Héloïse was only defending her. 

“I’m sorry,” Marianne says. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. She was just trying to protect me and I—”

Madame sighs again, cutting her off, but the disappointment lifts from her face. She tilts Marianne’s chin up to carefully inspect the wound which has already started to scab over and then pulls her into a hug and presses a kiss onto the top of her head. 

“I am hardly surprised,” she admits. “I know how fond she is of you. Go on, she is in her bedroom but she is grounded. Ten minutes only.”

Marianne smiles and nods, and races through the long hallway and up the stairs. 

Héloïse hears her before she sees her; the unmistakable sound of her gait, and her stomach does the tiniest of flips when she finally sees Marianne enter through the crack in her door.

“Marianne,” Héloïse tries for nonchalance, but fails to hide her excitement, smile betraying her. She jumps to her feet from her bed and they hug each other. When they let go, Héloïse places both hands on Marianne’s face and marvels at her chin. “You are going to have a cool battle scar now,” she says proudly and Marianne lets out a scoff, but it’s nothing more than affectionate.

“So how long are you grounded for?” Marianne asks.

“Until whenever my mother decides to unground me.”

“So when you’re thirty.”

They both laugh and Héloïse invites Marianne to sit next to her on the bed, legs dangling off the edge. They sit quietly, arm in arm and Héloïse imagines if this is what the happiness she reads about in books and sees in movies feels like.

“Forget about what Antoine said,” Héloïse says, letting her head rest against Marianne’s. She’s never understood why the smell of Marianne makes her feel like she’s swimming. “He’s so… _bête con comme ses pieds_. His age is higher than his IQ level.”

Marianne giggles and rolls her eyes. “My father always used to say when a boy teases you, it means he likes you.”

“That wasn’t teasing,” Héloïse says, suddenly feeling a knot in her stomach. She pulls her arm out of Marianne’s and fiddles with her hands in her lap. “He said horrible things. His mouth is as foul as they come. Besides, we tease each other all the time. What does that say about us?”

Marianne glances at Héloïse and then to the wall ahead of her. It wasn’t supposed to be a heavy question. 

“That’s different.”

Héloïse faces her and quirks an eyebrow. “How so?”

“It just is. You’re not a boy. You’re my best friend.”

“So?”

“Are you saying you like me?”

“No,” Héloïse answers all too quickly, feeling the warmth in her cheeks. “No,” she says again quieter, calmer, eyes to the floor. “I mean, not like that.” And then one last time, “no.”

“Okay,” is all Marianne says and the knots in Héloïse’s stomach get tighter.

“Do you even like Antoine?” 

“God, no.” Marianne wrinkles her nose and Héloïse breathes.

They fall into a fit of giggles as they mock the words and actions that have led them to this point until Héloïse’s mother can be heard from downstairs telling Marianne it is time to go.

“Sorry about your chin,” Héloïse says as she leads Marianne to the door. She absently plays with the ring that’s on her finger, silver and dotted with diamonds, a gift from her grandmother before she passed when Héloïse was ten years old. There’s still a tiny speck of blood on it from this afternoon. “Here,” Héloïse slides it off and hands it to Marianne.

Marianne’s eyes widen and she takes a step back. “Why?”

Héloïse pauses. There isn’t really any deep reasoning behind it. She just simply decides to. “Because you are my best friend and I want you to have it.” And then the corner of her mouth twitches. “And something to remember today by.”

Marianne can’t say no. She takes the ring from Héloïse and slips it onto the middle finger of her right hand, holding it up to the light. It fits perfect. 

“Thank you for defending me today,” she says, pulling Héloïse into a tight hug.

“I would do it again.”

“See you at school tomorrow?”

Héloïse nods and with that, Marianne slinks out of the bedroom and Héloïse watches from the door as she disappears down the staircase.

—

Marianne’s sock feet pad along the hardwood floors with ease. She knows this house like the back of her hand even if it is infinitely bigger than her own. She knows the housekeepers by name, and she might even know the code to the alarm system, but she doesn’t tell that to anyone.

She’s just about slipping her shoes on when Madame ushers her into the bathroom and pulls the first aid kit from the cabinet. God knows Marianne has even been home yet after the way she had shown up at the door out of breath and still in her uniform, and now her cut is bleeding again.

“ _V_ _enez ici, mon amour_ ,” Madame says.

They spend several minutes cleaning and bandaging the wound, Marianne flinching every time anything touches it. Finally, when all is done, Madame softly places a hand to Marianne’s cheek and looks at her as if she were her own.

“What would she do without you?” she says gently.

Marianne can’t fight her smile.

**_iii._ **

“It’s just simple science,” Héloïse says, setting the flour onto the counter. The rest of the ingredients are already laid out. They’re going to bake a cake.

Marianne groans. She’s an artist, not a scientist. Frankly, neither is Héloïse, but ever since Marianne had introduced her to reality baking shows, Héloïse had come alive at the idea of baking a triple layer chocolate cake. She had even forced Marianne to go with her to buy a new mixer. Usually, when Héloïse is in the kitchen, Marianne gets to be the guinea pig; today, begrudgingly, she gets to be the guinea pig _and_ the helper. It’s just that after twenty years of life, Marianne would rather just eat baguette and cheese, instead of actually cooking something, but only Héloïse would know what a terrible chef she is.

Right away, Marianne measures out two cups of salt instead of two cups of sugar. And not more than ten minutes in, there’s flour, well, _everywhere._ On the floor, the counter, probably even on the ceiling. Mostly, it’s on Marianne, and Héloïse looks exasperated.

“The ingredients go _inside_ the bowl, Marianne,” Héloïse sighs. “This is not your art studio.” 

Marianne can’t help but laugh, which in turn makes Héloïse laugh. There is no one else Marianne would do this for and there’s no one else Héloïse would do this with.

Eventually, they both decide Marianne is better off watching, so she leans herself against the counter next to Héloïse. She never takes her eyes off Héloïse, watching the way she cracks the eggs open with ease without getting any shells into the mixture; the way she wipes the back of her hand against her forehead when the chocolate batter splashes at her. She watches the little things too, things no one else might pick up on, like the way she furrows her brow and mouths the words when she’s reading the recipe, or the way one of her eyelids subtly twitches in delight when she brings the vanilla extract up to her nose.

Marianne tries to repress her smile the entire time.

The only thing Marianne _can_ do is preheat the oven. She sets the temperature to 350 degrees and when she turns around, Héloïse has seemingly crowded her space. Not that she minds, they’re always in each other’s space anyways, but Héloïse is standing right there with this sort of lazy, affectionate smile on her face that makes Marianne’s chest bloom and cheeks feel warm.

“What is it?” she swallows.

“There’s—“ Héloïse starts, but then she’s stepping even closer and raising her hand to brush the flour out of Marianne’s hair. Then her hand is settling on her face, thumb wiping away a small splotch of…butter?

Marianne closes her eyes and fights the urge to lean all the way into Héloïse’s hand, despite herself.

“Gone?” she breathes, heart beating a lot faster than it was a second ago.

“Gone,” Héloïse echoes softly.

Somewhere in the house, a door opens and shuts, startling them both. They take a step back and just like that, the moment is gone. 

“You’re cleaning all this up,” Héloïse grins.

—

As is with most weekends, Marianne stays over at Héloïse’s house. Tonight, it’s just the two of them so they sprawl out on the L-shaped couch in the living room where the scent of chocolate cake is suffused into the air. Héloïse reads, Marianne sketches. Sometimes they look at each other and then look away. In the background, the TV quietly murmurs. 

“What are you reading?” Marianne asks, when she’s tired of sketching. She tosses her drawing pad and pencil onto the coffee table and stretches herself out, letting her head fall into Héloïse’s lap, eyes towards the TV. It has always felt safe like this.

Héloïse hums softly, but barely looks away from her book. She drops one hand to Marianne’s head, fingers tangling into brown hair. 

“ _The Price of Salt_ ,” she says.

Right. The book that Héloïse had asked her to pick up from the library yesterday. 

“Read it to me?”

Of course Héloïse does. Marianne lets the sound of Héloïse’s voice lull her into a state of semi-consciousness. Then she’s closing her eyes all the way when Héloïse gently cards her fingers through her hair with a little more purpose, nails scraping at her scalp. Every so often, when Héloïse’s fingers brush against her neck, Marianne has to force herself to not react. She’s thankful Héloïse can’t see her face, beet red in all its glory.

Some time later, Marianne opens her eyes. She’d fallen asleep. It’s quiet now. The TV is off, there’s a blanket over her, and the weight of an arm and a book is splayed across her stomach. Above her, she can hear the even, rhythmic breathing of Héloïse. She moves slowly, creeping out from under Héloïse’s arm. She allows herself one moment, for no reason in particular, to look at Héloïse, and then lightly rubs her hand up and down Héloïse’s thigh.

“Wake up,” she whispers.

Héloïse stirs, blinking her eyes into focus, placing her hand over Marianne’s. “What time is it?”

“Time for bed,” Marianne pulls her up. “Come on, let’s go.”

They walk through the long, dark hallway together in a sleepy daze, like they have for years. Only this time, Héloïse, whether she knows it or not, hooks her index finger around Marianne’s, and Marianne is finding it harder and harder to ignore the way her heart beats just a little bit differently for Héloïse. 

**_iv._ **

“Grey or navy blue?” Héloïse asks, holding up two different napkin sets. They’ve been standing in the same aisle for what feels like forever. Shift changes have happened, Marianne is pretty sure, but Héloïse is off in her own world.

“Does it matter? It’s just going to end up covered in food."

“Of course it matters. It can change the whole aesthetic of the apartment. You’re an artist, you should know.”

Marianne scoffs. “Yes, artist. Not interior designer.”

“What’s the difference?”

They smirk at each other and Marianne feels that little jump in her heart again.

“Can’t you get all this stuff in Milan?” 

“I could,” Héloïse says, decidedly tossing the navy blue napkins into the cart, “but you won’t be there to help me.”

Marianne tries to not think about that. The fact that in just a few weeks, Héloïse will be starting a new life in Italy. Of course, she has known this for months, but it’s crept up too quickly and it feels like they should have more time together.

They’re in the bedding aisle now and as Marianne watches Héloïse read through all the different thread counts and fabrics, she has this fleeting thought that she wouldn’t mind doing this with Héloïse all the time. 

“So,” Héloïse perks her head up over the shelf, “cotton or jersey?”

“Jersey, definitely,” Marianne says, swallowing the thought back.

—

Later that night, they walk to the beach. The moon is bright, glinting off the surface of the water and illuminating the way for them.

They only come here when one of them needs a moment away from reality. Tonight, it’s both of them. They stroll through the sand unhurriedly, hands fitting together like jigsaw puzzle pieces, and Héloïse is pretty sure she’s memorized every bump and ridge of Marianne’s.

Maybe it’s the fact that Héloïse knows this might be one of the last times they’ll be able to do this together for a long time, but under the stars, Marianne’s face glows in a way that makes Héloïse think it’s really going to suck to not be able to look at her every day.

**_v._ **

The dim orange glow of the streetlights clings to the walls of Marianne’s bedroom as they lay face-to-face in her now too-small-for-the-both-of-them bed. Their knees knock together as they practically share the same breath, and from this close, Héloïse can count Marianne’s individual eyelashes.

Falling into bed like this is nothing more than muscle memory from all the countless nights they spent together as children and teenagers, staying up far too late playing cards or reading each other poems and books, and then falling asleep under the same blanket. But, tonight it feels different. Not only is there an air of finality to it because tomorrow morning Héloïse leaves for Milan, and soon Marianne to Paris; but they have both become acutely aware in recent years of the underlying chemistry that runs between them, even if neither of them dares to admit it. 

Every so often, soft car lights peep through the blinds and illuminates that hidden desire between them.

“This won’t change anything,” Héloïse whispers, reaching for Marianne’s hand, where her grandmother’s ring still sits. “We’ll both be back in Bretagne sooner than you think, Christmas is not far away."

“You’re always going to be my best friend.” The corner of Marianne’s lip quivers when she says it.

“Mine as well.”

But even the sentiment behind that is different too and Héloïse hates the way it sits thick in her chest because it feels like they are so much more than that. She wants to believe that under different circumstances they could explore it all and move forward together, but the stark reality is that after tomorrow they will have taken a step backwards and apart.

“Don’t meet somebody new and forget about me,” Marianne says, half smiling. The statement is bleak and ambiguous enough that Héloïse wishes she just hadn’t said it at all.

“I’m yours to keep,” is all Héloïse can think to say.

For awhile, the only sounds in the room are the ticking of the clock and the occasional car driving by. Héloïse affords herself a brief moment to close her eyes and when she does, Marianne is leaning forward and whispering, _“don’t sleep, don’t sleep, don’t sleep,”_ as she kisses Héloïse softly on the cheek. Only it lands on the corner of her mouth and goosebumps cover all the surfaces of Héloïse’s skin. Marianne doesn’t immediately pull away. She hovers there, almost as if she’s waiting, and Héloïse kisses her back.

Héloïse is expecting Marianne to pull back when their mouths meet but she doesn’t. They kiss painfully slow, lips asking each other if this is okay. It’s hot, languid, and breathy; a culmination of the last two decades of their lives. The sudden introduction of Marianne’s tongue makes Héloïse shiver and wish they had done this a long time ago.

It’s just—is kissing your best friend supposed to feel this good?

“I—,” Héloïse just about whimpers into Marianne’s mouth, but she stops herself. _I love you_ is what she wants to say. It threatens to spill off her tongue, has been for months. It’s not as if they haven’t told each other that before, it’s just that for Héloïse, it has a much different meaning now; deeper, realer. And she’s scared that Marianne isn’t on the same page. She can’t lose this. _Them._

But when Marianne teases at Héloïse’s lip with her teeth, Héloïse forgets everything. Hands become curious. Marianne hooks her leg around Héloïse’s, and Héloïse slides her palm up the length of Marianne’s thigh, hand settling at the skin just above her hip where her t-shirt has risen up. Héloïse is peppering small kisses along Marianne’s jawline and down to her neck when suddenly, Marianne jerks back.

“Héloïse,” her voice wavers, eyes hooded and unable to meet Héloïse. “We can’t do this. We shouldn’t do this.”

Héloïse’s lips burn and her heart plummets into her stomach. Her breathing is erratic and her pulse is beating far too loudly in her ears. Everything feels like a bad case of pins and needles. On some level, she knows Marianne is right, or at least she wants to believe so, so that maybe this might hurt a little bit less.

“I’m sorry,” Héloïse squeaks, still finding her voice. “You’re right.” She wants to ask why, but isn’t sure if she’s ready for the answer.

They’re finally able to look at each other, and when Héloïse blinks, a single tear rolls across the bridge of her nose without warning and Marianne wipes it away with a trembling hand. 

There isn’t much left to be said, or rather should be said, but there is the implicit understanding that something has changed. They both roll onto their backs, bodies now painfully flush together, staring at the ceiling in silence until they hope to succumb to sleep.

Somewhere in the back of Héloïse’s mind, she’s wondering what might have happened if she had taken the job in Paris instead.

—

It’s four in the morning when Héloïse wakes up. She had never really fallen into a deep sleep, and now she’s laying on her side with Marianne curled forward into her, the top of her head faintly pressed into Héloïse’s nose. She lets herself stroke the soft skin of Marianne’s arm, careful not to wake her. When she closes her eyes, she can still taste Marianne on her lips, and she thinks about how she’s a lot less bulletproof these days. How her heart has become a little more delicate after hardwiring itself around Marianne after all these years.

“I love you,” Héloïse whispers ever so quietly into Marianne’s hair. It isn’t for anyone to hear, Héloïse just has to say it.

Finally, she falls asleep.

—

Marianne hears it.

—

Marianne accompanies Héloïse and her family to the airport in the morning. The night before blazes between them, but never gets mentioned. In the car, they look out opposite windows, and on the empty seat between them, they hold each other’s pinkies like a silent promise that everything will be okay. If anyone else notices, they don’t say a thing. 

Marianne is last to say goodbye at the gate as Héloïse’s parents wait off in the distance. The hug is all too brief and much too silent, but Héloïse feels herself leave her body when Marianne’s mouth trails across the skin of her neck as they let go.

“I’ll see you soon,” Marianne’s voice trembles into Héloïse’s ear, tears in her eyes.

Héloïse spends the whole flight holding back tears of her own.

**_& the one time._ **

Marianne’s leg bounces up and down the whole flight to Milan. She tries to fall asleep to the low rumble of the engine, but her thoughts are moving faster than she can keep up with, and the static of her seat is making her back itch. She could have taken the train, it would have been more comfortable and saved her a whole lot of money, but this is faster. 

It’s just that when Héloïse left, a part of Marianne had left with her, and there’s just something Marianne really has to tell her that she can’t bear to do over the phone or wait another three months. 

So she does the only thing she can do. She goes to Héloïse.

Marianne wishes so much she had been braver, but there isn’t anything she can do to change the past. She knows Héloïse would have gone to Milan anyways, and she would have never asked her to stay, but maybe things could have been different. _They_ could have been different.

When she twists at the ring on her finger, the silver, diamond dotted one that Héloïse had given her all those years ago, she wonders if she had already fallen for her then.

The flight drags on for an eternity. 

—

Héloïse anxiously paces around her apartment, looking out the window every five minutes for Marianne’s taxi. 

It doesn’t feel like home yet and maybe it never will. The walls are cold and bare, and the furniture is mismatched and sparse. The only thing that brings her some sort of solace is the picture of her and Marianne that’s tacked to the fridge—the selfie they took at the coast last year, where the sun is bright and Marianne is kissing her on the temple. It makes Héloïse feel her absence in every corner of her heart.

Marianne had been vague on their last phone call about why she needed to come to Milan, but it’s Marianne, and Héloïse has never had it in her to say no to her. Truthfully, she might have an inkling, but she won’t allow herself to even think about it. Especially after the way they had left things two months ago. 

It had forced Héloïse to re-learn everything; to re-create this version of herself that might be able to find a way to live without Marianne at her side because their lives had been so intricately woven together for as long as she can remember, like threads from the same well worn cloth. And as far as she had been concerned, they were always going to be inevitable in one way or another, whether that meant growing old together as best friends only.

Héloïse practically jumps out of her skin when she hears the knock at her door.

—

Marianne smells like home. 

She buries her face into the crook of Héloïse’s neck and shoulder, and Héloïse wraps her arms firmly around Marianne, rubbing small circles up and down her back. They hold each other for as long as they can and the last twenty some odd years of their lives flash before them.

“You’re here,” Héloïse sighs, leaning back just far enough to see Marianne’s face, but not enough that she has to let go. Her eyes flit all over Marianne, as if she’d somehow forgotten what she’d looked like.

They are dangerously close to each other’s lips.

“Was there ever any doubt?” Marianne’s smile is coy. Héloïse slowly shakes her head.

They tiptoe around each other for the first few minutes, Héloïse nervously asking Marianne if she wants a drink, and Marianne just kind of looking at Héloïse in a way that’s always been reserved for her—equal parts affection and wonder. Only this time, there is an extra flicker behind it.

Then, when Héloïse goes to take Marianne’s bag from the kitchen into her bedroom, she feels the coolness of Marianne’s fingers wrap around her wrist and then she’s being guided backwards against the fridge.

Marianne looks at Héloïse for a second to gauge her reaction, but Héloïse is already staring at her lips. 

So Marianne kisses her. Héloïse completely unhinges.

Marianne’s lips are just as soft as Héloïse remembers and about a million unspoken words are spilled into each other’s mouths. Héloïse’s fingers instantly tangle into Marianne’s hair, pulling and scraping because she knows how much Marianne loves having her hair played with. It elicits the smallest noises from Marianne. 

And Marianne’s hands are low on Héloïse’s sides, deftly working their way under the fabric of her shirt. Héloïse shudders and throws her head back begging for Marianne’s mouth to find her neck. Her pulse is beating in places she never knew it could.

Carefully, Héloïse leads them to her bedroom, lips never leaving Marianne’s skin, until the backs of her knees meet the edge of the bed and Marianne is slowly guiding her down, hovering over her, legs on either side of Héloïse’s waist.

They pause and Héloïse looks at Marianne with these big and dark questioning eyes as she tries to catch her breath.

“I heard what you said that night,” Marianne says lowly, letting Héloïse take some of her weight. “It’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about.“ She lets her head dip forward, lips brushing at the skin just below Héloïse’s ear. She’s rewarded by the goosebumps that follow. “I should have said it back. I _wanted_ to say it back, I just—.” her voice trails off.

Héloïse is breathless, can’t speak, can’t think. She brings Marianne’s hand to her chest so she can feel how quickly her heart is beating and Marianne does the same, holding Héloïse’s hand over her heart. It does something to Héloïse, knowing that they have that sort of effect on each other. And perhaps it’s been there their whole lives, it just took one of them leaving to really know it.

“What changed?” Héloïse breathes, drawing Marianne’s gaze to her. She fondly thumbs over the faint scar on Marianne’s chin.

“Nothing,” Marianne says simply. “I just never thought falling in love with your best friend was an option.”

“And now?” Héloïse feels like she’s flying.

Marianne smiles, kissing Héloïse again, making up for all the lost time. 

“With you?” she says in between breaths. “It’s always been the only option.”

**_fin._ **

**Author's Note:**

> [River - Leon Bridges](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CWrodPMhpdw)


End file.
